


Falling Apart

by JJ1564



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Post-Hell Dean Winchester, Sad Dean, Sad Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 19:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5940756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJ1564/pseuds/JJ1564
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after S4’s ‘Yellow Fever’ – Dean is barely holding on.</p><p>Based on the song Broken by Lifehouse - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W5bnnagxt38</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Apart

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the fandomhits challenge on LJ; thanks to my lovely beta milly_gal.

Dean picked up the remnants of the alarm clock. He had to stop breaking the freaking things; he always got a bitch-face from Sam and a lecture on wasting money. Dean always argued that they never needed an alarm clock to wake them up, as neither of them slept much anyhow, but Sam said they might need it one day. 

Sam was probably right; he usually was about this kind of stuff. 

But Dean hated ticking clocks, the insistent tick-tock worse than a dripping tap. It was a noise that would keep him awake, keep his mind racing, his thoughts spiraling, his heart thumping…

Sam emerged from the bathroom and glowered at Dean, but he didn’t say anything. They were both still exhausted and battered from the ghost sickness case a few days ago.  
Dean sat down wearily on his bed and picked up the bottle of whisky from the floor next to it.

“That’s not gonna help,” Sam grumbled.

Dean swigged straight from the bottle, ignoring Sam, who sighed loudly, then settled down to sleep, his arm under the pillow, turned away from Dean.

“Goodnight, Sammy,” Dean murmured, as he lay down.

“Try to get some sleep, Dean,” Sam replied with a yawn. 

He wished Sammy would let things drop. Things about hell. That boy could be as insistent and annoying as a fucking ticking clock or dripping tap. He couldn’t do what Sam wanted - he couldn’t tell him about hell. It would make it more real somehow, make it something he couldn’t avoid, make him face up to what he had done. And he could never tell Sam the things he had done.

The memories of climbing off that rack and picking up the razor blade hurt more than the all the torture he had endured. If Dean let himself think about it all too much, he knew he would fall apart, he would be barely able to keep breathing. Sometimes he wondered why his broken, bruised and bloodied heart kept beating; how much damage could it take before it gave up? 

He recalled how Lilith had appeared and taunted him, telling him to listen to his heart. 'Bu-boom, bu-boom, bu-boom'. Yeah, he knew he had been hallucinating, but he also knew that he deserved to die; he deserved to go back to hell. He didn’t understand why he’d been saved, why a fucking angel, an ANGEL, had gripped him tight and saved him from perdition. Sometimes he wished Castiel had left him there; the constant pain he had been since coming back was worse than being in hell.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice cut through the silence and darkness of the motel room. “You okay?”

Fuck, he was fucking crying; he hadn’t even realized. And he’d thought Sam was asleep. “M’okay, Sammy,” he lied, rubbing his face across the scratchy pillow to wipe off his stupid pointless tears.

“I thought you were…” Sam began to say.

'Don’t say it Sammy please don’t say it,' Dean pleaded wordlessly.

“…having another bad dream.” Sam finished and Dean breathed a sigh of relief.

“Yeah, must’ve been,” Dean agreed, 'because I don’t cry, Dean fucking Winchester doesn’t cry.'

“Was it…was it about hell?” Sam asked cautiously.

“Don’t remember. Go back to sleep.” Dean grumbled.

Fuck, he couldn’t do this. He was so damaged and trying to keep his shit together was so fucking exhausting. But he had to keep going, keep holding on, for Sammy, always for Sammy. The first time he saw Sam after coming back, Sam’s hair had been wet from the shower and slightly curled. His shoulders were huge, he’d been working out. He looked fit, strong and so together Dean wondered for a moment if Sam had missed him at all; thinking bitterly that Sam was better off without him. But the crushing bear-hug he had received from his not-so-little brother had been so full of love and need it made Dean feel that he could do it, he could hold on. That he wasn’t completely broken. 

Bobby had stood watching them, his eyes full of pride and affection. Dean tried not to think of what Bobby would say if he knew what Dean had done. He could barely look at his reflection in the mirror without feeling disgust and loathing, but to see it in Bobby’s eyes or Sam’s…

“Dean!” Sam was on his feet now, moving over to Dean’s bed. “Please, I know you’re hurting…you…you’re scaring me.”

“Fuck!” Dean scrubbed his face angrily; “What are you doing?” Sam sat on the edge of the bed and even in the darkness Dean could see his outline, knew Sam was peering at him. “Leave me alone, Sammy. I’m okay, go back to bed.”

“Stop it. Stop pretending you’re okay,” Sam implored; “Stop pretending it’s a nightmare when we both know you’re not even fucking sleeping.”

“Fuck,” Dean repeated. He sat up and knew he was facing Sam now, and was grateful Sam had decided not to turn on the lamp. 

“Dean, talk to me.” Sam pleaded, “Tell me about it; tell me what’s freaking you out so much.”

“Can’t,” Dean reached under the bed for the bottle. 

“Whatever it is, whatever happened to you, I gotta say I’m probably imagining worse.” Sam confided, making Dean feel even worse.

Dean took a swig of Jack and shuddered. “I doubt it,” he whispered, “I’m sorry, Sammy. I just can’t…”

“Then let me…let me help you.” Sam replied, “Let me sleep with you, like we used to when we were kids, when I had nightmares and you would hold me and tell me everything was gonna be okay.”

Dean made a noise that was half-laugh, half-sob. Nothing was ever going to be okay.

“Please, Dean, let me help you,” Sam pleaded and Dean couldn’t deny him.

“Yeah, okay,” he muttered, shuffling over in the small bed to give Sam enough room to lie down. He felt Sam turn and slide one freakishly-long arm under his body, the other wrapping around him, surrounding him. “Thanks, Sammy.”

“You’re alright, Dean,” Sam’s breath was on his cheek and Sam’s hair was falling across his face as Sam pressed a kiss to his forehead. Just like Dean used to do to him. “Try to get some sleep. I got you. You’re okay.”

Dean cried himself to sleep, like he had every night, but this time he was in Sam’s arms, loved, protected, accepted. Sam didn’t think he was weak because he was crying; Sam loved him and wanted to take care of him. Dean would let him, just this once. 

Dean wished he could believe what Sam said, that he would be okay; but he knew he never would.


End file.
